John Brown: Confessions of a New Army Cadet

by R. W. Campbell

For all that, we were not unhappy. When we ceased to analyse the appalling anomalies of the military system, we enjoyed ourselves. Army life does teach fellowship and breed great friendships. Our hut was tenanted by a band of brothers. Our company commander was a ‘sport,’ and the C.O. had rid us of our platoon commander, who was a prize prig and an insufferable snob. We got a new platoon commander, Lieutenant Damall, who was an intellectual rebel, a first-class soldier, a fine lecturer, and a jolly good chap. The general routine of the school was stiff, yet bearable. But it would have been an absolute joy if more brains had been knocking around. However, the sheet-anchor, the personality, the father, friend, jailer, and general entertainer, was the dear old commandant. He would come on parade and play h—— with everybody, turn us upside-down, call us fat-heads and duffers, then wind up with, ‘You know, boys, I curse you because I love you. And I do want to be proud of you. I want to see you all generals and V. C.’s. Buck up, for Heaven’s sake, or, by Gad, I’ll have you shot!’ and off he would stump, pretending he was in a devil of a temper. In reality the Old Man was playing quite a clever game. He had that wonderful secret of knowing how to ‘curse’ a man, and yet make a man smile and do his best. He was not brilliant—but he was wise. And he was jolly good fun.

‘You know, gentlemen,’ he said one day at a lecture, ‘I was a bit of a lad when I was young. An awful blood! Wouldn’t call a duke my cousin, and was measured for everything—even my ties. Of course, that was in the good old days when we had nothing but nigger wars, and we used to spend nearly all our time hunting foxes or struggling to get in at stage doors. I was jolly good at that.

‘When I joined my battalion a colour-sergeant was told off to carry me about. This fellow had to think for me, even on parade. He was always at my elbow whispering the words of command—for which I can assure you I often thanked the Lord. For, to be perfectly frank with you, like many young officers, I was a bit of an ass. I achieved fame at a general’s inspection by giving my company the command “Trail arms!” instead of “Present!” for which I got six months’ marked drill on the square. They gave me no leave; wouldn’t even allow me to pop out and see my best girl (as I allow you to do); but from 9 A. M. till 4 P. M. an old sergeant gave me dyspepsia, colic, and lumbago by marching, counter-marching, and doubling on that terrible barrack square. I wore out two pairs of boots, and was almost excommunicated by the garrison chaplain owing to the awful language which I used after those parades. It was a bitter lesson; but it did me good, although I didn’t think so at the time. I am just afraid I was a saucy young devil.

‘Of course, in those days a subaltern was very small fry. He was merely a “fag” in the regimental system. It was very dangerous to think—it still is a bit dangerous to do so—and the great secret of success was to eliminate any trace of personality or originality. As a sarcastic old major remarked, all he demanded of a subaltern was to be strong in the back and soft in the head. In passing, I may say I was awfully popular with this old chap. Perhaps I was up to his marvellous standard. I led him to think so, for I readily found out that the line of least resistance was the one which assured a calm and charming life. You may think that a terrible revelation, but if you study the British Army in the ‘seventies, you will see that it would have been disastrous for any man of mediocre talent to start thrusting out his hand for the field-marshal’s baton.

‘Company commanders in those days directed operations from the anterooms or their bedrooms, and we long-suffering, fat-headed subs. fetched and carried for them. They were the drones, and we were the working-bees. At least, we thought we were, but what we actually did was this. We received our orders, then went to the company office and simply passed them on. The colour-sergeants were really the foremen of works. These old N.C.O.’s were marvellous men—men of great attainments, and men whose abilities were not rewarded as they are to-day. Under the old system the officer was a god, not to be defiled by mere toil or clear thinking. Our daily task commenced about 10 A. M., and finished about noon. When we had to work in the afternoon we always talked about resigning our commissions. We had an extraordinary view that we were there to enjoy ourselves and look pretty, and it was most unfair to burden our brains with 5+5=10.

‘I am telling you these things, not because I long for those old times again. When I see you boys doing so many interesting things to-day, I feel I must teach you to abhor shams, to face facts, and to tell the truth. In those days I couldn’t see the hollowness and the rottenness of it all. I see it now, for I have no illusions. War is a brutal business. Facts predominate. If you have the moral courage to get up in front of your men and admit an error, and seek for light and co-operation, you will show evidence of greatness.

‘We were very pretty in those days. I rejoiced in my figure, which, as with all fashionable officers, was kept in order by common or garden corsets. When we went out in review order we were a sight for the girls and—“the mob.” The men were just as smart. Indeed, a battalion looked like a thousand dandies out of a cutter’s window. I have an affection for that aspect of the past. It is no crime to be a well-dressed man. Even to-day it is most important that an officer should look the picture of a clean, alert, and well-groomed British gentleman. That is an aid to discipline. Every Tommy is an aristocrat. As one of my men once remarked, “I likes my orficer to look a ruddy toff.” Of course, there was a great weakness in this system. It was overdone. We concentrated on brass bands, pipeclay, and eye-wash. The men were mere automatons; the discipline was harsh, in some cases brutal; while strategy and tactics were not worshipped as we worship them now. This was not our fault. It was due to the age. The German menace was not even dreamt of. We had only frontier skirmishes to deal with. And we all enlisted—for fun.

‘As for training, it was not at all intelligent. We did field-days in full-dress uniforms, busbies, cross-belts, and all the glitter used on review parades. Even in India troops wore European clothing, and died by the hundred from heat apoplexy. The frontal attack was the summit of our knowledge, and “form square” for savage warfare our one great stunt. It looked pretty. And it was this damnable craving for prettiness which hindered the development of military training. Of course, I did not know that then. To me life was one huge jest. But I had a rude awakening.

‘In a frontier skirmish, my regiment was attacking a difficult position held by some of the hill tribes. The C.O., who was a charming old gentleman, but no soldier, decided on the usual thing—a frontal attack. We went forward. Two companies were almost annihilated. The senior major, a fairly able man, who was leading the attack, decided it was suicide to go farther, and ordered the retirement. We went back. The colonel demanded an explanation. The major very respectfully pointed out the stupidity of the arrangement, and suggested a feint attack on the front, combined with an enveloping movement round both flanks.